Heaven's Divide
by star wars for Jesus
Summary: Pursuing General Grievous through Wild Space, Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi crash their vessel on a backwater world, where they soon discover that they have a mysterious being on their tail...


"_How foolish! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies."—Paul the Apostle, 1 Corinthians 15:36_

"Would you prefer the marginally good news first," Obi-Wan asked, pulling a dour frown, "or the overwhelmingly bad news?"

Lying atop a mossy, sun-kissed boulder, Anakin Skywalker gazed drily down at the other man's approaching form. Two days ago, they'd made the mistake of trying to negotiate an asteroid field, guiding their tiny, oblong vessel through scores of its wafting rocks, and the end-result hadn't been what you would call _optimal_. Far from it, actually. After careening into a sizable asteroid—and subsequently mangling their starboard engine—they'd plummeted the surface of a nearby planet, meeting the ground in a blossom of flames and loud, concussive sound.

Come to think of it, it was a wonder he and Obi-Wan had been able hobble away from that blasted crash. Except they hadn't really been hobbling. Not with the injuries they'd sustained, anyway: after all, jettisoning from blazing, hell-bound ships tended to leave you with a few parting gifts. Like the deep, oozing lacerations scored across Obi-Wan's chest and midriff…or Anakin's own shattered femur.

Anakin drug a hand over his grimy, stubbly face. "The bad news."

"Well, in that case…" The other Jedi eased down beside his boulder, wincing as his wounds wept serum. "I was able to scope-out one of the villages, and it appears as though we received faulty intel. As far as the villagers could tell, Grievous hasn't even made it this far into Wild Space."

Anakin groaned. "So taking that shortcut to Glasia was a complete waste."

"It unfortunately appears that way, my young friend. But even if you hadn't ventured into that asteroid field, the result would've been the same: no Grievous. Which brings us right back to where we started."

"Great." He pushed himself into a sitting position, his injured leg sprawling out at awkward angle, and glowered out at the drooping sun. Their intel really _had_ been botched, then, dooming them from the start. Condemning them to watch yet another thing fizzle out, snuffing out hope and the oh-so frail chance that something would actually go their way. "And the good news?"

Gaze following Anakin's, the older Jedi pulled a grim frown. "On the way back from my little recon mission, I stumbled across another, closer village: it's about a _ten miles_ nearer, to be exact. From what I gathered, it's inhabited, which means supplies, medicines—and a way to get ourselves off this rock, if we're fortunate. Only…"

Drawing his knees to his chest, Obi-Wan went silent, prompting Anakin to study the older Jedi more intently. There was something throbbing silently in his faint blue eyes, pulsing like lifeblood's frenzied, time-fleeing current, and it didn't look encouraging. More like bleak, watery with its sheer lack of hope. With its absence of that one slim, astronomical miracle-reality they'd been counting on.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Anakin released a weighty sigh. "I feel a 'but' coming on."

Shuddering, Obi-Wan blinked as though he were trying to keep himself from nodding off. As if he were reminding himself that this wasn't a dream, wasn't a realm spun by fantasy and glass shores. As if he was suddenly, keenly aware of his own existence—and that somewhere a clock-face loomed, _tick-tick-tocking_ away his breaths. "Ah, never mind. You should really be getting your sleep, anyways; the village is only a couple of miles or so away, but I have a feeling you'll have quite a bit of difficulty making a go of it on one leg."

Against his better judgment, Anakin opted to drop the matter, surrendering to the all-too brief haven of sleep and encroaching night.

As soon as the sun laid claim of the amber horizon, he and Obi-Wan had set off, trudging over endless tracks of waving, topaz fields. Of course, Obi-Wan's prediction had inevitably come true: with only one good leg, Anakin was slowing things up considerably, his scuffle-hopping barely carrying him forward. Naturally Obi-Wan had tried offering help, had loaned him a shoulder to support his weight-but as time drew on, it'd become clear that the older Jedi's stamina was flagging. His breathing had become labored, catching in his throat like words unspoken and venomous, like eagle wings begging for reprieve.

Three hours or so into their journey, they finally answered that plea.

Sagging to the ground, Anakin drew in a lungful of sweet morning air. "Master, do you think we're—"

A few meters ahead of him, Obi-Wan threw up his hands, defeated. "Anakin, you've asked the same question thirteen times within five minutes, and the answer it still the same: _we are _not_ 'there yet'._ And we won't be for another half-mile, so you might as well get accustomed to the idea of hopping."

Anakin blinked, stung. Smarting from the terse, biting words. From them…and the gnawing, lurking notion that his own body was close to unraveling. "That's not what I was going to ask."

Turning, Obi-Wan met his gaze, ocean eyes tossing with regret. "I'm listening."

"Well, it's…" He reached out, plucked a few grass blades free of the ebony soil. Held them between his fingers, their emerald sheaths balancing on his skin. Waiting to fall, to slip off skin and fingers and waft back to the ground. Back to lupine, ravenous _terra_. "It's just that… last night…you know something's up, don't you? With the village, at least."

"It's a more of a gut-feeling than actual knowledge, really," the older Jedi replied, crouching before him. He pursed his lips. "What really worries me, on the other hand, are—"

Abruptly, the other man stopped, freezing stone-cold. A shadow was cresting his auburn a head, a black, spreading thing that tapered off to twin points, multiple limbs, and a blunt, bobbing dome. The dome, Anakin surmised, had to be someone's—or some_thing's_—head; after all, anything else just wouldn't make sense. Because those scarlet blips…the way they were blaring, blazing within the dome like ruby sister-stars screamed _eyes_. Malevolent, greedy ones that would drink him in the second they got the chance.

And when Anakin dared to look past Obi-Wan rigid form, he saw…nothing. No billowy, ethereal apparition with the voracious, crimson gaze. No pluming, midnight shape drifting toward them like pillar of smoke, limbs poised to embrace and entangle. No anything, in fact—just fields and sky, their mouths lingering long and deep at the horizon.

Obi-Wan craned his neck around, gasped. "What in blazes-?"

Anakin shook his head. "You'd know better than me. You and Qui-Gon were the planet-trotters, after all."

"_Were_ being the operating word," his friend reminded him, dead-pan.

"I know, I know. But still…"

Obi-Wan cocked his head, sending him a look that ranged somewhere between mildly nonplussed to thoroughly addled. "'Still' what, Anakin? You think I've actually some inkling as to what that…_thing_…was?"

"Maybe," Anakin admitted, shrugging. "It did seem like you sensed it before I did, anyway."

"I was reacting to a force-warning, Anakin, not to its actual presence." Brow furrowing into mini canyons and bluffs, Obi-Wan frowned down at his boots. "Truth be told, I don't believe it _had_ one. It felt…like it wasn't quite there. Wasn't real."

Anakin clenched his jaw, muscles standing stark across its blunt edge. On one hand, what they'd seen could be imagined, alive with the starry fabric of dreams; on the other…well, it was best not to let his mind drown there. The unknown, he'd learned, could carry far more potency than reality, its inky bulk swelling with the witless whims of the mind. "Or maybe it's not alive. Like it's a droid or…something."

"That would explain it, wouldn't it? But if that's the case, then maybe our villager friends were mistaken as to Grievous' presence in this system." The Jedi master shrugged, hapless, then clapped Anakin over the shoulder. "Whatever the case may be, we'll need to keep moving—especially if we're being tailed by one of the 'good General's' tinnies."

"You sure you're up to that, master?" he asked, expression dubious. He gestured to Obi-Wan's tunic, which was now caked with ringlets of caked blood and glassy, ever-weeping serum. "No offense, but you're really in no condition to your own weight—not to mention mine."

Another shrug. "I'll hold up. And besides, we're not trying to make record time here or anything; we just want to keep moving, and keep whatever might be following us on its toes." He let his hand drop, used it to pluck at his dirtied, copper beard. "Is it just me, or did the air suddenly get…thicker?"

Frown deepening, Anakin pulled in a long breath, blew it out. Drew it in again, held it. Felt his lungs hang there, bloated like twin balloons with heavy, dragging air, and let it out through his teeth in a hiss. "Kind of. Maybe we're at a higher elevation, and we just hadn't realized it till now."

"Perhaps," Obi-Wan agreed, still fingering his beard. "It could explain why we're having so much trouble reaching this village, I suppose. We—"

And that's when everything—skies, grass, Obi-Wan's darkened gaze—winked out of existence. Just…vanished. Dissolved, melting into nothing but tundra void before reappearing, its kaleidoscope tapestry blossoming back into full life.

Furry after-images flooding his vision, Anakin blinked. No—not back to full life, to its mundane ebbs and icy, plunging streams. Not back to normalcy, to the matter that wove through the everyday realm. This was…different. Like it'd been altered, sewn back together in ways that seemed to make his vision bend, warping like a world's stretching, twisting gravity-well.

Past Obi-Wan's shoulder, the shadow had once more coalesced into murky life.

Only this time, the shadow wasn't simply a smoky, wafting shape. It wasn't merely a silhouette drawn in dark, billowing vapor, wasn't a form cast by some blazing light. Wasn't made of lurid, inky dreams. This—this was _real_, was tangible and palpable and _there_. It could be tasted, savored. Could be touched, his fingers itching to curl around its long, elegant neck.

Once more Obi-Wan froze, body going rigid as winter streams. He'd seen it too, Anakin guessed—or at least he'd felt it, its presence now pressing on the fraying corners of his consciousness. Except…well, it wasn't exactly _pressing_, wasn't pinning him under the full brunt of its weight like the heavy, cloying air. Not quite. Instead, Anakin barely felt it skim over his mind, its presence as thin and insubstantial as a forgotten dream.

"_Make me real_," it whispered, stroking his ears with gossamer breath. "_I've been trapped here, imprisoned on this awful world. In this body. And as hard as I try, I only remain a shadow of what I once was—or could be."_

Anakin's every synapse and nerve flared with alarm, knocking all breath from his frozen lungs. This creature was here, speaking with him, breathing against his skin like a spring breeze—but it wasn't real. Wasn't alive, nourished by the inner spark of a soul, and—for all he knew—it couldn't be touched. Could only be felt and heard and seen with straining, searching eyes.

As if to answer his unspoken query, the creature floated forward, passing straight through Obi-Wan as if he were the purest water. Then it extended a hand, tried to brush Anakin's cheek with its spindly fingers. Tried to touch him, make contact with living, breathing flesh—but it couldn't. The hand simply skimmed on through him, its touch barely registering with his facial nerves.

"You're a spirit," Obi-Wan breathed, gaze locked on the shadow's hazy, jet black face.

The thing—the spirit, the apparition, the whatever—shook its head, a movement which seemed to pain it deeply. "_No, not a spirit. I am less than that—or far more, based on your view of such things. Rather, I am a soul, the last remnant of a being gone and forgotten. The part of a being which is the most real, is essence itself."_

Finger to his lips, Obi-Wan considered it, expression tellingly blank. He seemed to be absorbed in this creature, in this dying, dwindling soul—or he was completely mortified by it. After all, abstract, spiritual things tended to unnerve beings, reminded that they, too, were something far more than atoms and isotopes and bleeding matter. "If you are indeed a soul—and I'm a not doubting that—than why are you pleading for us to 'make you real'? A soul can't be both reality and the absence of it; it's one or the other, no matter which way you approach it."

The soul's eyes—which now glinted with soft, milky blue—lifted to the skies, their azure blanket heavy with too-thick air. "_What you say is true, stranger; they are either real or mere figment, and in all cases, living souls are the truest reality of a being. But this is just it: the soul has to be living, cannot be smothered by full brunt of death. And unfortunately, I cannot count myself among the living. I am dead, dead, dead."_

"I was under the impression that souls never died."

"_They don't_," the soul agreed, nodding its misty head. "_But all souls-whether belonging to the least or greatest, the worst and the best—are born dead. In order to become real, to become a true, living thing, you must have your un-reality killed. And when it has truly died, the soul can be raised to life—to full, brimming, and abundant _existence."

Mouth robbed of all moisture, Anakin swallowed loudly. Even in this insubstantial, wispy state, the soul cast an imperious presence, one that he desperately wished he could escape. Could hide himself from it, veiled from its probing gaze under mountains of midnight loam. "And how're we supposed to…how did you put it? Make you 'real'?" He dropped his eyes, watching the souls feet skim over the ground like wind. "Do we…do we have to kill you before that can happen?"

_"Believe it or not, strange one, but you are also a dead soul. This is why the air seems heavy, and why you and your friend believe yourself to be injured. In reality, you only are only buckling under the weight of this true realm—because you, like me, are unreal._" Turning its gaze back on them, the soul reached toward Obi-Wan, its smoky arm passing through his copper hair. "_While you still dwell in your bodies, you create the illusion of being real; you are, after all, thicker than I. You can be touched, felt. But if you continue on like this, believing that you are your own source of reality, you will in the end be found fake. Dead. And then, only a living soul will be able to draw you out of that fate."_

Grimacing, Obi-Wan pulled away from the soul's echo-touch, ran a hand through his graying, auburn hair. Then he frowned, dour. Shot the soul a questioning look. "And how do you know that we aren't injured? If you're 'thinner' than us, are less substantial, then you can't possibly sense our physical states."

For one stretching, lingering moment, the soul only stared he and Obi-Wan down, its misty eyes devouring them in azure fog. It wasn't moving, wasn't breathing—after all, the air of the real world would gag it. Catch in its shadow-lungs, snuff out whatever "life" it still held.

Then the soul parted, its halves drawing away to create two smaller, even less substantial beings. One was bloated, its shape distended, its outline bulging like hoarding storm clouds. Despite its near-transparent state, it was unbelievably corpulent and _thick_—and juxtaposed, as it were, to its gaunt, sallow-faced counter-part.

_ "We sense your 'states',_" the thinner being rasped, "_because we _are_ you."_

Cold, electric shock coursed through Anakin's body, driving all breath from his lungs. No. No, no, _no_. "You…that's impossible!"

_"Impossible?_" the fatter one echoed, his voice low and grating. "_Or merely unsavory?"_

Eyes aflame, Obi-Wan leapt to his feet, ventured closed enough to the beings that he was almost slipping through their airy essence The souls, even in their separate states, didn't seem to affect the older Jedi; in fact, he looked defiant, like he was ready to crush their un-reality into blackness. Which was pretty un-Obi-Wan-like, if you asked him. And worrying. And a tad lethal, carried with it feral light that prompted Anakin to hang back, leaving his friend to eat through whatever fuse burned within. "Lies often are."

The malnourished soul touched Obi-Wan's shoulder, its non-hand dissolving partially at the contact. "_Only to those who are buried deeply in truth, Obi-Wan. In their very nature, lies allure, begging to be imbibed by any being who would grasp it. And when that lie has been swallowed, trickling down an oh-so-wide throat, it tastes sweet. Perhaps even sweeter than life."_ Its hand dropped, sliding through his friend's body._ "And the lie you drank, my friend, the one you have drained to its very dregs, is that you must let go of all. Sacrifice is the crucible of life, yes—but sometimes, there are things that to need to be held onto. They must be cherished, protected. Held close."_ The soul shook its head grimly, gestured toward its own gaunt, sunken frame. "_You see this? This is the result of all the sacrifices that should never have been made, of the things you should not have let slip through your fingers. Of all the _people_ you should've continued to keep in your heart, whose absences are now robbing your soul of its very life._"

Although the Jedi master averted his gaze, let it rest on some distant, waving tree, Anakin read him like a sheet of flimsi. His inner fuse, the one he'd lit to full, chaotic life only a moment before—it had died. Gone out, eaten through by the soul's—_his_ soul's-long-echoing words.

Because his soul, the famished, pathetic thing that gave him life, was right. His friend had lost too much, had said goodbye to many beings he loved. Had robbed his soul of all sustenance, withering it till it stood on the threshold of unreality and total, irrevocable oblivion.

Which meant…

"I hold on to too much," Anakin murmured, river-eyes unfocused.

The fatter soul faced him, nodding. "_You are correct, Skywalker: your hands hold far-too many things, and they are unwilling to yield. You cannot—will not—let them go. So if you are not careful, if you continue to clutch and gulp down all this life has given you, you will choke; and after that, theirs is no sure way to know what will become of you." _Round, cherub face darkening, his soul floated closer, pressed its fat non-lips to his ear. _"Learning to go hungry…this might just save your life, child. Release your precious. Let it—them—go. Because in the end, it will certainly fill you in, make you real."_

He shuddered, eyes returning once to his soul's misty, swirling face. "But if I 'starve' my heart, won't that, you know…kill you? I'll face the same fate as Obi-Wan's soul, be all shriveled and thin."

_"Dying isn't necessarily a bad thing, my young friend. It may cut you off from this realm, rip you from all you loved, all you could've been—but in the end, death is merely a door. Which door you take—well, this depends on whether you die by choice, or have time steal it from you. That is the way of time, after all: it takes, steals, and destroys. No life is ever given by it, save that which it is forced to distribute."_

Pursing his lips, Anakin sent Obi-Wan a side-long-glance he was certain the Jedi master didn't see, then sighed. Dying was a door, all right; it opened pathways, forged roads anew from the charred tatters of reality. Stole things away to great, spreading places, to scenes unknown and unseen by living eyes. Thing was, he wasn't sure whether he'd really cross over the right threshold by letting go of his loves—and in the end, he wasn't sure he wanted to. "And what happens if I keep heading down this path, if I don't release 'my precious'?"

"_That,"_ his soul intoned gravely, "_will send you down a dark, twisting road—one from which you may never return._"

"May never return…so it's possible, isn't it? To return, I mean."

"_Nearly everything is possible, Skywalker. But I warn you: don't trifle with these matters, or ignore them as you've been doing. Because one day, your greed—your gnawing, incessant desire to _hold on_—may just be what destroys your precious for you."_

And then their souls were shrinking, condensing into thick, jet black orbs that shot into their respective chests. At first, Anakin screamed, entire body brace against the searing pain that sure to come—and by the sound of it, so was Obi-Wan, too. But the things made contact with their skin, it became increasingly apparent that this wasn't to be the case; in fact, it felt oddly pleasant. Soothing. As if it belonged there, it essence trickling gently back into his chest cavity, bathing it in sun-kissed warmth.

But…

Anakin craned his neck, blinking quizzically up at Obi-Wan. "Is it just me, or does it feel like I've, well, _forgotten_ something? Something important?"

Obi-Wan shrugged, nonchalant. "I can't be sure. Last I remember, we were—"

A bursting, insistent noise chimed within the older Jedi's robes, cutting him off. He sent Anakin a puzzled look, brow climbing steadily up his forehead—last time they'd checked, after all, there hadn't been a sniff of comm. reception. Or, at least that's what they'd thought; with his thoughts seemingly thinning around some nondescript aberration, Anakin wasn't willing trust anything to memory. Neither was Obi-Wan, apparently, his friend fishing about his tunic till he produced the blinking device. "Kenobi."

"Good to hear your voice, Master," a thin, warbled voice greeted. Anakin couldn't be sure, but it sounded quite a bit like Ashay Vil, padawan to the controversial Som Atali. "After a couple of days without receiving word from you, Master Yoda was beginning to worry that something had gone amiss. It took some doing, but he persuaded us to track your signal—which we traced to here, obviously." She cleared her throat, swallowed quietly. "I don't mean to worry you, Master, but it appears as though something…desperate…has occurred on Coruscant."

Obi-Wan normally reserved expression melted, giving way to alarm. "Did Master Yoda say what it was, by any chance?"

"No, Master, but from the sound of it, there might be a chance that the planet has been under some sort of attack."

Shooting his feet, Anakin gaped at the tiny comm.. An attack…on _Coruscant_? On the gleaming, faceted gem of the Republic, the world that hadn't tasted war in a millennia? "But—but that's impossible! Surely you got your intel mixed—"

"I assure you, General Skywalker, that neither I nor my comrades have received any false intelligence from Master Yoda. His instructions, as always, were clear: we were only to locate you and Kenobi, to make certain you were in fighting condition, and to see you off on your star-fighters."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, drug a hand over his face. Bowed his head, chin nearly touching his chest, and for a moment, he looked utterly helpless. Lost for words and ever-winding paths. "Alright, Padawan: I'm sending you the coordinates to a nearby village. You can rendezvous with us there at seventeen-hundred, and if at all possible, be sure to bring the starfighters."

"Oh, I will, Master," Vil replied grimly. "After all, I have a bad feeling that whatever awaits you on Coruscant-it might just be more than clone pilots can handle."

And for reasons unknown, Anakin felt as though his soul was thickening, its essence sliding over his ribs like tarry sludge.

_Romans 6:6-7: For we know that our old self was crucified with Him so that the body of sin might be done away with, that we should no longer be slaves to sin—because anyone who has died has been freed from sin."_

** To Be Continued…**


End file.
